


The hair is the window to the soul

by orangetrees



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 08:15:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20654021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangetrees/pseuds/orangetrees
Summary: The short story of a haircut





	The hair is the window to the soul

**Author's Note:**

> this is short and Dumb but it was fun to write, so when i found it while looking for something else in google docs i thought "eh why not post it" and here we are

-Darling are you alright?  
The laughter in his voice is like really good music. A lot better than whatever John is trying to write, at least. John pushes the hair from his eyes, finally realizing blowing on it won’t do anything.  
-Yeah, yeah just my fringe getting in my eyes.  
He looks up to see Freddie eyeing his fringe with the same analytical expression he has when he paints. Nothing good can come of this, John thinks.  
-I could cut it for you, you know.  
Yep, nothing good. John must look sceptical, because Roger pipes up from where he is sat with Brian’s old acoustic on the floor.  
-He’s cut my hair before and it’s turned out well, see?  
John glances at Roger’s blond and, now that he thinks about it, very artfully cut head of gold and nods, slowly. He then looks back to Freddie.  
-I’ll take you up on your offer, then.  
-Wonderful!  
Before John can protest Freddie has grabbed his hand and yanked him up from the worn out flea market sofa and up on his feet. John’s heart leaps into his throat and his face flushes what he believes to be a deep scarlet. He glances behind him to see Roger giving him two thumbs up. He is so screwed.

-About this long, then?  
Freddie is pointing to a spot a few centimeters above John’s eyebrows. John nods, Freddie’s hand falling back to his side. Freddie sits him down on the lid of the closed toilet and gets out a pair of scissors. He rummages around in the cabinet for a while before fishing out a total of five combs with a small amused smile playing on his lips. He selects the fanciest looking one, which doesn’t say much as it, along with all their hair styling tools, is from Tesco. Then he places a rubbish bin in John’s lap, and takes his place on the rim of the bathtub.  
-Ready?  
A hum.  
-Close your eyes.  
With one sense gone, John is acutely aware of the other four. A clock is ticking on top of the cabinet, cars are driving by outside the open window in the living room, his socks are uncomfortable and the room smells of shaving cream, warm towels and Freddie’s two different conditioners. Speaking of Freddie, John can feel how Freddie’s bony knee presses into his upper thigh, how his pianist’s hands adjust the tilt of his head just so, and most of all John can feel his breath tickling his forehead.It feels so intimate even if he knows he will never get closer to kissing Freddie than he is now. He unconsciously parts his lips, tilts his head back a little, begging, willing Freddie to just kiss him. Then his bated breath completely stops as he feels the cool metal of the scissors against his forehead. He stays so still, he thinks, he just might freeze in place. Then the eerie silence is cut through, literally, by the staccato sound of hair being cut and the pieces of hair fall to the bin in John’s lap like autumn leaves. Another snip with the scissors, another cascade of hair. And a few more.  
-I’m going to even it out a bit and give it some volume. Sounds good?  
John nearly jumps, so used to the quiet.  
-Yeah, sounds good,  
he echoes. Another snip. A few hairs land on John’s cheek and decide on staying there, despite his best efforts of blinking them away. Freddie laughs softly and swipes them away with his thumb. John suppresses a shiver. He really is a lovestruck fool, he thinks dismally. And touch starved. A few more minutes pass, but with Freddie’s hand on his cheek it feels like mere moments.  
-There!  
They move to stand in front of the mirror so John can have a look. The fringe is, if he’s quite honest, not perfect. It’s the best he’s ever had. He turns to Freddie.  
-Thank you, it’s good.  
-No problem, dear.  
He says it distantly, busy admiring his work. Or maybe he’s not, a small, hopeful voice in the back of John’s mind says, maybe he is admiring his canvas. John takes a shaky breath, meeting his friend’s eyes.  
-Freddie?  
-Yes?  
It’s too late to back out now. He lets the words spill from his mouth before he has time to think it through, which is good, because the question is almost suicide.  
-Can I kiss you?  
He says it quickly, so he can’t back out, so Freddie will know. Liquid brown eyes widen with surprise and John barely has time to think I’m a bloody idiot before he gets his soft reply.  
-Please.  
John takes another shaky breath and leans forward. Then he does it.


End file.
